


The Rat in the Hat

by fenella



Category: 2 Broke Girls
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2011-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-27 21:36:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fenella/pseuds/fenella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes people get things right, sometimes robots get things wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rat in the Hat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LJC](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LJC/gifts).



Before Caroline launches herself into Han’s diner, and Max’s life, there are others; Delphine, Sarah, Stephanie, Paul, Laura-Beth. They all want to be Max’s friend, and are all hopeless servers. Each one, in their own time, is a silent victim of the Williamsburg diner night-shift.

Delphine is from Quebec, and doesn’t technically have a work visa. She tries to fix that with a fake marriage, which is how they end up with Oleg.

Sarah is a student who has, in an act of rebellion against her parents, fled her engineering lectures in Boston and moved to New York. Things progress from pink hair (bad) to a gratuitous tramp stamp (worse) but the tipping point is when she spills the entire contents of a coffee pot on the lap of an irate baby boomer in a cheap suit. She phones the college administration in hysterics, and transfers credits towards a degree in accounting.

Stephanie has twins, moves to Texas. They never see her again.

The aspiring actor, Paul; he doesn’t take direction very well. Also, he has the dubious honour of being the only employee that Han has ever fired. It turns out that Paul doesn’t take rejection very well, either, and he ends up with a criminal record. This earns him a few points in Max’s books, and the trip to the precinct is an unexpected cherry on top. Max almost doesn’t mind about the bail money; the whole experience falls under the entertainment section of her D.I.Y. budgeting. It’s like going to see the kind of band that only comes into town once every quarter century. Priceless.

And then there’s Laura-Beth. Laura-Beth has two loves in life: roller derby and booze.

“Oleg, have you seen Laura-Beth?” asks Max in aggravation, one night in the era of the blonde roller derby queen. “I’ve been busting my ass all night, covering her tables.”

The cook sighs forlornly. “I no notice anything. My heart is restless, like caged bird."

Max quirks and eyebrow upwards. “You can’t still be upset about losing your French wife. The two of you were so horrible together that she arranged her own deportation.”

A look of hurt flits across Oleg’s face, chased by a scowl.

“That beautiful vixen. No! When we meet again in Hell, it will be far too soon. I refer to the beautiful Stephanie. My heart no longer sings happy songs, since she leaves us for weakling cowboy.”

Max almost feels something akin to sympathy. “That’s sweet, Oleg. Stephanie was nice, almost weirdly so. Sometimes I actually thought that she might be a Disney princess.”

Oleg contributes a nostalgic smile and adds, “And being with child made her breasts exceptionally large and ripe for the plucking.”

Yep, thinks Max, there it is. “You have a way with words.”

Oleg shrugs unapologetically.

The moment of small, shared tenderness gone, destroyed by a black hole of sleaze, Max blows a bubble with her chewing gum. “So you’re gross. In other news, where’s LB?”

Oleg sighs before disappearing into the kitchen and shouting. “Laura-Beth has gone next-door for stronger libations.”

Max purses her lips, then bares her teeth at the diner full of patrons waiting to be waited.

“Ok, here’s the deal, people. I’ll be right back. If you’ve never been here before, make sure you read the menu three times. That’s three, not two, or one. I’m not going to answer any stupid questions when I get back.”

One elderly woman opens her mouth to speak, but Max holds up her left hand in the universal sign for ‘Stop’.

“ And if you’re a regular at this diner, think about that, and contemplate where your life went wrong.”

The diner’s customers shift uncomfortably. The same, elderly woman clears her throat.

Max bee-lines for the door and Earl smiles at her. “There’s no such thing as a stupid question, Max,”  he chirps.

“No,” agrees Max. “Only stupid people.”

Earl’s laughter fades as Max plunges into the cool spring New York air. The shock of temperature change turns into a shock of badly screeched indie rock as she storms past a meaty bouncer and into the diner’s neighbouring bar. On the small stage, under the glow of paper lanterns, some kids that can not possibly be of legal age are screaming graphic obscenities of hipster love into their microphones. Laura-Beth is nowhere to be seen.

Max slinks over to the bar. This place gives her the creeps. College kids having too much ironic fun. It’s like their skinny jeans cut off circulation, and their taste is impaired by lack of oxygen to the brain.

The bartender turns around. He’s unexpectedly hot. “Can I get you something?”

“A half-pint waitress?” It’s out of her mouth before she can stop it.

He stares blankly, throws his dish towel down on the bar in resignation.  “Is that a lager? A cocktail? Ok so, truth: this is my first week on the job. Unless you want a drink that’s equal parts everything that’s behind this bar, you’re going to have to help me out.”

Max stares back. “Um, yeah, sure. Hydrogen peroxide. Half a litre of vodka. The tongue of an unwashed indie rocker. A teaspoon of evil concentrate.”

A look of horror crosses the bartender’s face, followed by comprehension. He nods over Max’s shoulder, in the direction of a closely packed crowd of dancers. When Max turns to look, there’s Laura-Beth, flailing drunkenly. The diner uniform makes her depressingly easy to spot.

“Yep,” says Max. “That’s my girl.”  

Reluctant to wade out into the mess of limbs, Max shouts, “Hey, LB!”  There’s no response.

She tries again, “Yo, home girl!”

The bartender cringes. “Here, I’ll help.”

Max gives him an obvious once-over, eyebrow quirked upwards. “No offense, but unless you’ve got a time machine, a condom, and satellite radio collars on her parents, I don’t think you can help.”

The bartender bursts out laughing, as he makes his way from out behind the bar. “You’re pretty hardcore, you know that?”

“I know. My core is made of steel alloy. I’m actually a robot,” deadpans Max.

He leans close, and Max nearly jumps out of her skin. He smells like cheap beer and expensive hair product.

“Don’t tell anyone,” says the bartender, mouth beside her ear. She can feel his stubble on her cheek. “But me too. I’m a robot too.”

Max smiles. She can’t stop herself. “Your secret is safe with me, Compadre.”

Which is, of course, how Max meets Johnny.

*

Caroline comes home to what is supposed to be any empty house, except there is someone sleeping in her Murphy Bed. She starts hyperventilating and fumbles around in her purse. If she finds her phone first, she’s calling Max to ask if this has happened before. Maybe it’s a thing. Maybe Max is involved in some weird poor-person timeshare on the apartment; rent out the space while they’re at work, for some extra cash. It almost makes sense.

But, if digging around her purse, Caroline finds her pepper spray first, this someone is in for a world of hurt. Peppery, sprayed hurt.

The intruder rolls over in their sleep, and before she can think about what she’s doing, Caroline’s second-hand stiletto is off her right foot and flying through the air.

 _Thwap_ , goes the shoe when it hits the wall on the other side of the bed.

“Aaaaah!” goes the intruder, startled awake.

“Aaaaaah!” shrieks Caroline. And then, “Wait, Johnny?”

Johnny rubs his eyes, reaches for his glasses. “Hi, Caroline.”

She reaches down and removes the the other shoe. Johnny flinches in response, but Caroline gingerly places the shoe in her handbag.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

“Max didn’t tell you?”

“Uh, tell me what?”

“I broke up with Cash. Or she broke up with me? We broke up.”

There’s a silent pause; either way, it’s a lot of breaking up.

“Oh,” says Caroline. “So you and Max..?”

“Met in the street while I was making a sofa my new home, and she offered me a place to stay. Until I get things figured out.” Johnny’s eyebrows go up, tracking the expressions that flicker across Caroline’s face. “You know, you move from A to B like you’re jumping to some ugly conclusions. ”

Caroline scowls. “B is after A, Johnny. It’s a fact. You can’t stay here.”

Johnny scowls back, “What, why?”

“Uhhh,” says Caroline, and feels for all the world as if they’re both ten year olds. She points a manicured index finger at him, making her bangled bracelets clink. “Because you hurt Max.”

Johnny opens his mouth to protest but Caroline makes a shushing noise, and turns her finger to point at his drawing of a rat, wearing a hat, hanging in part of Max’s tenderly curated Johnny is Awesome Art Show, and encased in a protective ziplock baggy. _Exhibit A_ , says Caroline’s expression. _Would you like me to show you B?_  

But when she opens her mouth, the tirade continues. “Because you’re selfish and indecisive, and Max deserves better than a hot mess who says one thing and does, means another. Because if you’re not gone by the time she gets home, I am going to put that stiletto through your head. And the other one, yeah, that one on the floor, is going somewhere a whole lot more painful. "

Johnny’s eyes widen, though they’re still frozen on the rat, and Caroline’s willing to believe that he’s considering these points for the first time.

“You’re kind of a bitch,” says Johnny at last, his gaze turning to Caroline, though not without a small trace of reverence. “I thought you were all ponies and butterfly philanthropy.”

Caroline smiles widely. “Once,” she says, “Daddy and I funded this project that helped elementary school students track the progress of migrating Monarchs. And afterwards, the children partnered with a professional ballet company to choreograph the movements into new commissioned stage work. It was way awesome, I love butterflies.”

Johnny stares at Caroline, at a loss.

“Yeah,” admits Caroline. “So I'm kind of a bitch. But you know I’m right.”

*

When Max gets home, Johnny is gone, and Caroline isn’t saying a word. Max doesn’t want to admit that she’s having any kind of feelings, though her pointed lack of emoting smothers the apartment with a miserable, panicked blanket of loss. Caroline isn’t forcing her to talk, which, though highly suspicious, avoids confrontation over each girl’s delinquency and guilt amassed by the day’s events.

Max bakes a batch of cupcakes for the diner that are slathered with angry pink frosting.

It’s not until Caroline works her shift the next day, and serves someone a birthday cupcake with a candle violently jammed down the middle that she reads the words on top. _Bite Me._

That can’t be healthy, thinks Caroline. The sugar content, or the sentiment attached.

*

It takes almost four weeks until the two girls start the argument that has been brewing between them. Caroline steels herself to confront Max one night after the last diner customer heads out the door, and into the dark. 

“I’ve been patient,” says Caroline, waving a flapping paper clipping in her hand. “But this has got to stop.”

Max tilts her head back and sighs in mock over-exasperation. “I know, it’s soooo unfair. If the city makes it legal to keep pet tigers, how will the house-sized cats feel? I bet they’ll get all inadequate and jealous, and feline caused crimes will sky-rocket. They’ll be all cute and like, _What wuz u expectin nao?_ as they shoot you for their drug money.What a drag. It’s a good thing we found Chestnut a safer home. ”

“Max, this is serious.”

Max snorts. “You don’t think cats hyped up on crack are serious?”

“Max,” says Caroline. “Our cupcakes got panned in New York Magazine’s food section. It says that what were ‘once refreshingly quirky and sarcastic fortune-cookies truths reinvented have become bitter, soul-crushing and mean.’ They go on to write that if they want the life sucked from them, they can think of a half-dozen more enjoyable ways.”

Max scoffs defensively, “Only a half-dozen? And they don’t say that our cupcakes are bad.  Don’t you always say things like ‘There’s no such thing as bad press’? It’s free marketing for us. Yay team.”

Even as she mimes cheerleading motions, Max can practically see the enraged exclamation points coming out of Caroline’s head.

“We’re so close to hitting our cupcake shop fund, Max. But there is a picture,” says Caroline, holding it up for the other girl to see. “A picture of us, with fangs and capes drawn on. No one wants to buy cupcakes from vampires, Max.”

“I do,” says Oleg. “Would you like to know why?”

“No,” says Caroline without pause, leaving absolutely no room for argument. Max is almost proud.

But any feelings of good-will are extinguished as Caroline continues, “You need to get over this whole Johnny thing. You’ve been sulking about him for even longer than the time that you spent not being a couple.”

Max looks at Caroline, opens and closes her red, red lips, grabs her jacket from beside the till, and angrily stuffs it over her uniform.  “Thank you, Caroline. I really appreciate your support and sensitivity. You’re such a great friend.”

Caroline watches with dismay as Max heads for the door “Where are you going? ” she asks.

“Sun’s almost up,” yells Max in return as she storms out, her voice trailing into the distance. “I have lives to ruin. I’m going to find some random guy and suck his…”

There’s a silence where Oleg looks side-long at Caroline.

“Blood!” says Caroline. “Vampires. Cupcakes. She's sucking blood!”

“You seem stressed,” says Oleg after another beat of silence. “I could fix that.”

*

The day that they hit five thousand dollars, is the day that a job with one of New York’s elite athlete management companies falls from the sky and lands in the lap of Caroline Channing. Typical. She says that she won’t take it, that she and Max are in this, life and business, together.

Max has long suspected that Caroline could walk into any company in the city, marketing or otherwise, and get herself a job.

"Take the offer," says Max. "We’ll hit 25k a lot faster if you do. If you still want to start the cupcake business at that point, you know where to find me. And hey! Until then can start paying your full half of the rent."

Caroline laughs, hugs Max. Max pats her on the back, it's not completely awkward.

 _*_

Caroline dates a hockey player from Slovakia with extremely pretty hair. He doesn’t understand sarcasm very well, or English. It's no end of amusement for Max; almost as good as an open bar at some distant relative's wedding.

After much pleading, Max goes on a date with Caroline’s coworker, Steven.  He’s not the first or the last, in this post-Johnny era, but she spends the duration of the meal staring at him, wondering why he isn’t a cool, bartending street-artist with glasses. Max drinks an entire bottle of red wine, goes home and spends three hours internet stalking Johnny the street-artist.

Johnny is in Latvia, apparently.

He has a mohawk, and is involved in an international arts movement against human trafficking. On their website, there’s a portfolio of his work, tagged buildings in sixteen different cities across Europe and South America.

He’s been teaching girls, teenage victims of abuse, to make films, too.

Max stares at the sketch on the napkin, the one on the support beam, for two hours before falling asleep in Caroline’s empty bed. The rat stares back from beneath the broad brim of its hat.

*

The day that they hit ten thousand dollars, Paul the aspiring actor swaggers into the diner.

Paul walks with the confidence and grace of a man who frequents red carpets. He’s dressed casually, but with the kind of simplicity that takes stacks of money to achieve. He’s both more streamlined and bulkier, and like a switch going off, he becomes Paul the actor who aspired.

“Paulie!” shrieks Max, before regaining compsure. “I can’t believe you’d risk being seen here."

Paul rolls his eyes, pushes his aviators down. “There, I’m incognito.”

“Uh huh,” says Max, and smiles. She proceeds to take her break at peak business hours, pushing Riley - Caroline's replacement - one step closer to a nervous breakdown.

When Paul is almost done his burger, and Max is almost done describing in painful detail all the ingredients in his meal, he pushes his plate away looking a little green. He pulls an envelope from his back pocket, and pushes it towards Max.

Max snorts, “You’re in the habit of paying people for their company, now, Paulie?”

He inclines his head. “It's the only way I can get a lunch date. What’s a wealthy young man to do? No, that’s some money that I, ah, owe you.”

Max’s face lights up like a sign on Broadway. “The bail money? Shut up. That was such a great night.”

And as Paul’s disagreeing, she picks up the envelope, looks inside and chokes. Oleg has to slide into the booth to whack Max on the back. He brings with him a bottle of whiskey, which Max takes a gulp of, after she’s finished coughing.

“Envelopes full of money?” asks Oleg. “I miss this, when it was the four of us.”

Paul grins. “It’s nice of you to include Han.”

Oleg grins back. “I was talking about the Scotch. You, me, her, Max.”

“Um, guys,” interrupts Max. “So, I have a fond memories of all the various and sundry events of that night, and I am pretty sure that your bail was considerably less than what is in this envelope. As in, one hundred percent sure that my back account has never had this much money. Ever.”

 Paul shrugs. “It’s interest.”

“That was, like, five years ago. It would have to be like, the year 2240 for this to be in any way reasonable. Do you see spaceships flying outside? If this is 2240, I am very disappointed by the lack of microchips and telepathy... I'll admit that I'm impressed, if afraid, that the diner is still here.”

Paul sighs. “Listen, Max, I owe you a lot. You taught me to be tough.”

Max snorts, again. “Hurrah for the Max Black school of hard luck and brutal truths! We may not be enjoyable, but we're effective.”

“No,” says Paul. “I mean that you’re one of the strongest people I know. I don’t think I would have made it so far with my career, if I hadn’t had you in my life, showing me how to be a decent human being, while giving as good as I get.”

Max has nothing to say to that.

“How’s the boyfriend?” Oleg asks Paul, raising a water tumbler with whiskey in the bottom.

“Wait,” says Max. “You’re gay? Oh. Ohhhhh. OH.”

“You mean Alex?” asks Paul, ignoring Max. “He’s back in the closet, dating some New York socialite who works for his management company.”

Max chokes again, earning her a bemused look from Paul. “Caroline Channing?” she croaks.

Oleg rolls his eyes, raises his chin, “We shoot hoops soon, yes?”

“Yeah man, let’s do it,” Paul smiles.

Max feels as if she’s entered some strange German hipster film mid-scene, but doesn’t totally hate it. Paul and Oleg bump fists, and make dorky explosion sounds that befit ten year old boys or sixty year old men.

Paul nods towards Oleg. "This man is a warrior on the court."

"Yes," agrees Oleg. "The courts of love."

*

It takes her a while to muster the courage, but Max eventually uses Paul's money to rent studio space. She's not good at letting people do nice things for her, or accepting gifts. Feeling a little useless, Max starts building a portfolio of illustrations to submit to children’s publishers.

Once Max starts submitting her work, she’s surprised at how quickly she receives a legitimate book offer. But once she's read the book synopsis, she isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. In the end, Max does both.

 _Chestnut the Show Jumping Champion is forced into early retirement. Turned into the streets, with no home, Chestnut makes new friends and decides to open a cupcake business. But will this ragtag family prevail against all odds?_

Max puts down the letter, and reaches for her phone. Caroline picks up on the second ring.

“I kind of hate you,” says Max. “Also, your boyfriend is gay.”

“Max?” asks Caroline. She sounds concerned, not mad.

“You have other people who call you just to be mean, at two in the afternoon?”

Caroline sighs. “You have no idea. Listen, Max. I need to tell you something. I’m the one who got rid of Johnny.  That was my fault.”

There’s a silence. And then Max says, “No, that was all my own stupidity. And his.”

“Max,” stresses Caroline. “I threatened to put a stiletto through his balls.”

Max laughs, shakily. “He was kind of a jerk.”

“A jerk that you really liked,” says Caroline.

“Yeah,” says Max.  “I did, I do.”

"You're allowed to want things," says Caroline.

"I've seen your vision board," retorts Max. And then with new enthusiasm, “So yeah, on a scale of one to ten, your boyfriend is really, really gay.”

Caroline laughs, “He’s got really great taste in shoes, though.”

Max bites back a grin. And then she uses her high-pitched Chestnut the horse voice to say, “Caroline Channing, you’re really a lot more complicated than people think.”

She can hear Caroline smiling on the other end of the line. “I love you too Max, but you’re really a lot less complicated than _you_ think.”

*

Johnny moves back to New York, which Max knows because she never stopped internet stalking him, and they do, inevitably, run into each other. It’s precipitated by the fact that he shows up on her doorstep. He’s carrying a white box.

“Oh hey, Johnny,” says Max. Because she is the very picture of nonchalance.

Johnny is tan, and muscled, and Max is incredibly aware of the fact that she’s wearing the plaid shirt she slept in, and a pair of pajama shorts. She’s also conscious of the fact that just inside Johnny’s line of sight is the napkin with the rat. The rat with a hat.

“Hi,” says Johnny. “I hope it’s okay that I’m here.”

“Yeah,” says Max. “It’s all cool.”

He looks at her hesitantly. “I kind of fucked things up before, didn’t I?”

“Well,” says Max. Iceberg cool.  Cool like being stranded on an ice floe. "It takes two people to make-out in a bathroom when one of those people has an awesome girlfriend in the next room."

Johnny flushes, his cheeks turning red. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, me too," says Max. "I can't listen to Adele anymore. I feel like she's judging me."

And then, "If I invite you in, are you going to leave without warning?"

Johnny reaches out and twists a piece of Max's hair around his index finger. "You might never get rid of me," he says.

"What's in the box?" Max is hanging on to her indifference by a thin thread.

It's cupcakes. Caroline and Max's cupcakes. Red velvet with creamcheese frosting.

The first one has a heart, and the rest read _or until my batteries die._

"The first time we met," Johnny tells her, "You told me you were a robot. Is this lame? I'm really sorry. I'm lame."

"You brought me a box of my own cupcakes?" asks Max, unable to address the other parts of reality. Like the fact that Johnny's been storing their conversations for future reference.

Johnny protests. "You didn't make them, some underling did. Congrats on the minions, by the way. And besides, if you reject me, I want to at least be able to self-medicate with the best baked goods available."

"Yeah, that's healthy," Max's resolve to be curt is fading fast. It evaporates completely as she realizes that Johnny's staring at her lips, his breathing becoming progressively slower and more rhythmic.

Max reaches up to wrap her arms around Johnny's neck, and pulls him into her apartment. Their mouths find each other easily; it's both as if they never stopped doing this, and they've waited far too long for any contact at all. She's never held a whole lot of convictions, but Max is fairly certain that if they stop, or slow down, or if Johnny's hands move away from her skin, she is actually going to die.

Max is many things, but she's never turned down a man who has brought her robot love cupcakes, and she's not about to start.

*

 


End file.
